Proof of Worth
by LizAna
Summary: Because Revolution is finished for good, so I'm commandeering the Charloe ship and sailing that baby wherever I want it to go ;) Also my take on what could have happened in season 3.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello! Yes, its been a while since I posted anything, but with the end of Revolution, could I really stay away?**

**My aim has always been to stay true to the characters and the show, so up until now I was totally stingy on the Charloe action, giving them plenty of "moments" but not taking it too far out of the realms of possibility. **

**Well, all that is over and done with now! With the show ended and so many loose ends flapping in the wind, I'm going to take Charlie and Bass and do whatever I want with them, all under the guise of steering them to some kind of HEA. **

**Unfortunately, I am REALLY busy at the moment (which is why I haven't posted in so long) which means any chapters I update will be few and far between. **

**Anyway, like a lot of other fans, I hope Revolution gets picked up by another network, but the unfortunate reality may be that we've watched the last of Revolution on our screens. :( Either way, its time SOMETHING happened between Charlotte Matheson and Sebastian Monroe.**

**~x LizAna**

**PS, this starts directly after the end of 2x22. **

* * *

Charlie paused and glanced up at the sky as thunder rumbled in the distance. It'd been warm and sunny earlier, but huge dark clouds had blown up a while ago, and now a storm was definitely on the horizon, the air thickening with quiet anticipation.

She pushed her crossbow back and pulled out a small canteen, taking a swift drink of water. She hadn't finished her patrol, but unless she wanted to get soaked, or trapped out in the storm, she probably needed to start heading back to camp.

Moving off through the thin forest, she hadn't gone more than a dozen steps when a shifting shadow in her peripheral vision stopped her cold. Heart picking up speed, she got hands on her crossbow and then crept forward, rounding a squat bush and coming up on a tall figure leaning against a tree.

"Don't tell me we've reverted back to the you-wanting-to-kill me stage of our relationship."

Charlie blew out a short breath and lowered her crossbow, before knocking free the loaded arrow. "Monroe, what are you doing out here?"

He pushed off from the tree, and held out the flask he had in his hand. "I could ask you the same question."

She shrugged one shoulder and accepted the drink, knocking back a quick mouthful of whatever gut-stripping liquor Monroe had gotten his hands on recently.

"I know Miles isn't all that interested in catching Ed Truman, but I'm pissed off that the weasel escaped this morning. Thought I'd take a bit of a trek out from the camp and see if I could get lucky."

Monroe nodded as he took the flask back and slipped it away into his leather jacket. "Good plan. That son of a bitch really needs a round or two between the eyes."

"Miles was still rounding up patriot soldiers when I left. I would have thought you'd be in the thick of it, taking as many of the bastards as you could."

Monroe glanced away from her, his expression closed off. Another rumble sounded above them, this one deeper and definitely closer.

"I was on my way to get Connor. I left him locked up in a pumping station after him and Neville tried to take the president off my hands last night. But then I realized I wasn't going to make it before the storm hit, and something tells me its going to be a big one. Didn't want to get stuck in the middle of nowhere to ride it out. Plus, I'm thinking no matter what I say to Connor, he's still going to be pissed, especially if he didn't find a way out of the station yet."

Wow, so apparently Monroe was feeling chatty today. She shifted over to lean on the tree, crossing her arms. "Why is Connor pissed at you? Is it something to do with getting the republic back? Did he finally realize his father is a power-hungry megalomaniac?"

Monroe gave a short, sharp laugh, though the sound lacked humor. "Gee, Charlie, you really don't mind telling it straight, do you?"

She nodded. "Just calling it like I see it."'

Monroe dragged a hand across his hair, glancing over his shoulder at another echo of thunder. "Connor thinks I picked Miles over him. What my son doesn't see is that I was doing it for the greater good."

"Is that like the greater good of mankind, or the greater good of Sebastian Monroe?" Because Monroe never did anything unless it would benefit him. And even though he'd turned up with the president when they'd needed him, and she wanted to believe he'd done it because in the heart he possibly had buried beneath all the cold cynicism and sharp calculating, he'd realized it was the right thing to do. Unfortunately, past experience was trying to tell her he'd done it because some how, in the long run, it would work out better for him.

"I know you don't believe me, Charlie, that you've got no reason to trust me. But when I get the republic back, I want to do better this time. With Connor, hell, maybe even with Miles back by my side, things will be different."

She shook her head and glanced away. "You know Miles won't go for that."

At least she prayed he wouldn't. She'd meant what she'd told Miles, about him and her mom giving it a shot. And one thing was certain, her mom wouldn't stick around if Miles decided he was going to rejoin Monroe at the head of the republic.

"A few weeks ago I probably would have agreed with you, but after last night, I can see that Miles and I are starting to get back some of what we had."

The direction of their conversation had made unease start building within her, getting louder and more threatening like the thunder rumbling above them. Fat rain drops started plonking to the ground, and Monroe glanced up at the sky.

"Come on, we better start heading back before this weather really breaks."

She pushed upright from the tree and started back-tracking the way she'd come, Monroe keeping pace with her. The walk back to camp was probably a good half an hour, and as the rain started falling more steadily, and lightening arced in the sky above them, she realized they weren't going to make it before the storm really hit. They picked up the pace, falling into a jog. Icy gusts of wind had started cutting through the humidity, strong enough to scatter leaves and light debris in their path.

A blot of lightning came down somewhere close by, the thunder right on top of it shaking the earth beneath her feet. Monroe grabbed her shoulder and pulled her back against him.

"Charlie, we've got to get out of this storm. Come on." He grabbed her hand and she let him tug her along, as the rain started pounding down in earnest.

A structure loomed out of the surrounding gray, and Monroe pulled her into a run as they crossed the last few yards. He shoulder his way through the door of the old farmhouse, but getting to the other side didn't prove to provide much shelter. The entire back wall of the house was missing, and half the roof had collapsed in.

Monroe led her into what had probably been the den, which at least had three walls and most of the roof in tact.

"We'll have to wait out the worst of it here." He made his way over to the fireplace, and grabbed what was left of a chair, breaking it up into smaller pieces and setting it into the hearth. In a few moments, he had a fire going, casting a warmish glow, and a lot of smoke outward.

Charlie crouched down and held her hands out, shivering as water trickled out of her hair and down her spine. Her clothes were stuck to her, and every time the cold wind blustered through the cracks and holes of the house, shivers wracked her.

Monroe had collected wood from around the room and set it into a pile next to the hearth. He knelt down and looked over at her as he shrugged out of his jacket.

"You should get out of those wet clothes."

A quick, cynical laugh ambushed her. "Really?"

Monroe stared back at her, his expression totally serious. He hung his jacket on a rusted hook next to the fireplace and then started unbuttoning his shirt. "Yes, really, you want to get hypothermia?"

"Its not cold enough for either of us to get hypothermia, and I am not going to sit around here with you in my underwear."

Monroe peeled his wet shirt off and then hung it up with his jacket. "And are you an expert on hypothermia, you know when it is and isn't cold enough to start affecting your system? Fine with me, because I'm the one who'll have dry clothes when we head back to camp later."

She glared at him as he settled back against the wall, and then swore under her breath when a hard shiver ripped through her. At least he didn't seem inclined to take off his pants. They would have had a serious problem if he'd tried that.

She hunched in on herself as the shivering really set in, the temperature dropping quickly now that the initial storm front had blown through. The fire didn't seem to be putting out much warmth, and when her teeth started chattering, she realized that maybe Monroe had been right, damn him.

"Hell, Charlie, would you stop being so godamn stubborn?" Monroe shifted over and grabbed the collar of her jacket. Okay, maybe getting her clothes dry should be her first priority here. Her limbs were starting to ache from the constant shaking.

Monroe started tugging her jacket off, so she uncurled herself far enough to help him, though her arms and fingers were stiff, so he ended up doing most of the work. After that, he made short work of her shirt and singlet. Her bra was damp, but no way in hell was she taking that off.

Once her wet clothes were gone, and her skin started drying, she did actually feel a little better. Monroe stood and hung her clothes on another peg on the opposite side of the hearth, and then added some more wood to the fire before returning to where he'd been sitting.

"Sit closer to me, you'll be warmer." He nodded his head, motioning her over, but she glared at him, crossing her arms over her chest.

"First you want me to get my clothes off, and now you want me to sit closer to you."

Something wicked glinted in his blue eyes as he stared at her. "What's your point?"

She swallowed, her throat too tight all of a sudden. No way was she taking that conversation any farther.

He leaned forward and grabbed her arm, pulling her off balance. "We spent all those weeks together, traveling to Willoughby. You trusted me then, so why not now?"

Then, she'd felt like she'd owed him after he'd saved her, and she'd realized they wouldn't win the fight against the patriots without him. Now… now, everything was different.

Yet, even just his hand around her upper arm was warming her up, and her traitorous body decided to go and give in. She shuffled over, and Monroe pulled her in between his legs, settling her back against his chest and then rubbing his hands up and down her arms.

"Your skin is like ice. Miles will kill me if you catch your death out here."

"Yeah, but Miles would also kill you if he saw you sitting here with your hands all over me." She shivered, but this time the quaking through her body had nothing to do with the cold, and everything to do with the way Monroe was warming her up.

"Then I guess this has to be our little secret," he murmured against her hair.

Oh yeah, someway, somehow, this was going to end in trouble.

She stared into the flickering flames in the hearth, concentrating on warming up and not letting herself think about the man sitting behind her. As the cold finally started melting away, she started lulling into relaxation, giving more of her weight to Monroe.

The strokes along her arms slowed, changed tempo, and then Monroe shifted slightly, the muscles of his chest flexing against her back. The hot sensation of his mouth on her shoulder jolted her like the bolts of lighting that had been crashing down earlier.

She stiffened, half pulling out of his arms and turning to look at him. Unfortunately, she couldn't escape him since he still had hold of her upper arms.

"What the hell are you doing?"

There was a depth and openness to his blue gaze as he stared at her, one she'd never seen before.

"What am I doing? That's the million dollar question, isn't it? Ever since Miles walked out and left me with the republic all those years ago, its like I've been walking around in the dark, with no clue and no direction. But, you're like a light, Charlotte. And when I look at you, I can see again."

Her heart had started pounding erratically against the inside of her chest, and Monroe tightened his hold on her arms.

"I don't deserve you, or anything good thing in this life for the things I've done. But I think if Miles can forgive me, and you can see past the monster that I became, then maybe all hope isn't lost for me."

"Monroe—"

"No." He shook his head. "Not Monroe."

She swallowed, breath catching as she comprehended his words.

"Bass." The name sounded strange rolling off her tongue, but there was no denying the power behind it, the feeling of rightness.

"Much better." Heat glinted in his eyes, his expression telling her she'd given him exactly what he wanted.

Before she could start telling him the million ways of just how wrong this was, how she couldn't, _wouldn't_ do it, he yanked her forward, his hand gripping the back of her neck.

His mouth caught hers, and the sensation of it stunned her motionless for a long second. He pulled her in even closer, bringing her flush up against his chest, and when her palms landed on his warm, muscled flesh, she couldn't hold out any longer. Her body took over; her traitorous body that quite simple wanted Sebastian Monroe.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N - another chapter in a matter of days! I am spoiling you, but it can't last :( **

**Thanks for all the awesome reviews, and all the follows and favorites, always makes my day when I see how much people are enjoying my stories. I'm getting all sorts of ideas about what could have happened in season 3, so this will probably end up being a long-ish work :) **

**Anyway, enjoy this latest installment!**

**~X LizAna**

* * *

No doubt about it, Bass had done a lot of idiotic things in his life, especially when he'd been in the Marines before the power went out. But this pretty much took the cake on stupid.

Had he really lost his head just long enough to think that kissing Charlotte Matheson would be a good idea? Actually, whether or not it was a good idea hadn't even entered into the equation. With her pressed up against him, all that skin exposed and turned golden in the flickering light of the fire, his brain had pretty much lost all higher reasoning, and suddenly getting a taste of the forbidden had been the only thing on his mind.

The kiss had gone on just long enough to heat him up in a way he knew he wouldn't be forgetting anytime soon. But Charlie had pulled out of his arms, her cheeks slightly flushed, blue eyes darkened with passion and an expression of shock on her face. She hadn't said anything, simply moved out of his reach and turned her back on him. Yep, that was a big fat clue right there.

He couldn't blame her for totally shutting down on him. That kiss had been so wrong… _but had anything ever felt so godamn good?_

"The rain looks like it might be setting in."

Bass glanced up at her quiet words, past where the wall was missing and the roof gone. The sky was an unending soupy gray, the rain falling with drumming insistence. It was getting darker, though he couldn't see how far off the sun was from setting through the thick clouds.

"So we either go out and get wet all over again, or wait it out until after it gets dark."

She sighed, and stood to check her clothes. "I don't really want to get cold and wet again, but…" Her words trailed off into heavy silence.

Oh yeah, he could finish that sentence. She didn't want to be stuck with him here alone, not after the stunt he'd pulled.

"I'm not going to touch you again, Charlie, if that's your worry."

She glanced over her shoulder at him, her expression landing somewhere between pissed off and suspicious.

"You took me by surprise, you try something like that with me again, you won't like how I respond."

Bass held his hands up. "Like I said, I won't touch you again."

He wouldn't apologize, not when he wasn't sorry. Sure, he shouldn't have done it, but he wasn't going to sit here and pretend like he hadn't liked every second of it.

She yanked her clothes down off the wall and shrugged into the singlet, which still had to be damp. With a sigh, Bass pushed to his feet and walked up behind her as she flicked the shirt around her shoulders and then shoved her arms into the holes.

"Seriously, Charlie. There's no point in getting all wet again, we're better off waiting it out."

"I know," she snapped, turning to face him. "I'm not going anywhere."

She shot him an angry look before brushing by him, returning to sit in front of the hearth. Bass dragged a hand over his damp curls and then moved over to grab down his own shirt.

This thing with him and Charlie — he didn't know what to call it. They'd forged a connection after she'd found him in New Vegas, and then he'd saved her from those jack-ass barfly predators, before they'd spent all those weeks traveling to Willoughby together. He could trust her in a fight almost as much as he could trust Miles, and that was saying something. And although he'd been aware that she was gorgeous, it'd been in an abstract kind of way - as though the knowledge that Miles would gut him and string up his shredded carcass for trying anything had kept any serious thoughts about her out of his head. Not to mention the age gap. Hell, she was about the same age as his own kid, which should have been disturbing… The problem was, he'd never seen her as a kid. Right from the first moment he'd met her, when she'd unflinchingly demanded to take a bullet for her brother and crazy bitch of a mother, he'd been fascinated by this girl who seemed to be a contradiction of strength and vulnerabilities.

He shook his head at himself. And now she had him getting all introspective. Jesus, maybe he should walk it all off out in the icy rain, maybe it would reboot his brain and give him a cold reality check.

With a short sigh, he added a few more bits of wood to the fire and then grabbed his flask out of his jacket, before returning to sit against the wall, keeping a good five feet between himself and Charlie.

Darkness fell quickly, and the rain continued while he steadily emptied the flask. Charlie pulled a small apple from somewhere, but didn't offer to split it. Probably fair, since he hadn't shared his liquor.

The warm flames lulled him, and he must have dozed, because in what seemed like only a few minutes, the rain had settled into a light drizzle, and the fire had died down to glowing embers.

Bass rubbed his heavy eyelids, before blinking a few times to clear some of the liquor and sleep haze, and then glanced over at Charlie. She'd fallen asleep, slumped against the wall near the hearth, his jacket covering her. Seemed she'd commandeered his coat for a blanket instead of getting closer to him for warmth like he'd offered early. Of course, he couldn't blame her considering how that had turned out.

He rubbed the back of his neck where a kink had knotted his muscles from having his head on a bad angle.

"I'm getting too damned old for sleeping out like this," he muttered as he pushed to his feet and stretched the stiffness out of the rest of his body.

It was long past time to get back to camp, no doubt Miles and Rachel would be worrying about where Charlie had gotten to.

Bass started toward Charlie, but a creak in the house made him hesitate. It was probably nothing, could have been an animal, but a sense of something rippled down his spine, and that was one instinct he'd never ignored, it'd kept him alive more than a few times over the years.

He reached down and wrapped his hand around one of his swords, and as he started turning, a shuffling sounded behind him. With a smooth yank, he pulled the sword free and spun.

"Not so fast, Monroe."

Bass shifted, putting himself between Charlie and godamn Ed Truman. The patriot scum had a gun pointed at them as he walked farther into the room. Before Bass could start weighing up the odds of avoiding a bullet and slicing the bastard from the guts upward, another couple of patriots filed in behind Truman, all carrying AK-47s.

Well, hell, the odds weren't looking great. He shuffled back a step, until his boots bumped into Charlie's legs.

"Monroe, what the hell?" She grumbled.

"Charlie, need you up and at 'em."

A second later she was standing beside him, crossbow in hand. By now, they'd been joined by about twelve patriots, giving him and Charlie no room to move.

"What do you want, Truman?" He lowered his sword, because he wouldn't be fighting his way out of here unless he wanted to get dead. And while he might not be too worried about that eventuality for himself, there was no way he was going to let Charlie get killed on his watch.

"What do I want?" Truman laughed, the sound edged with anger. "I wanted to cement my place under the president's rule. I wanted to run Willoughby and not have my every move dogged by you and godamn Miles Matheson. I wanted to come out on top once the patriots had destroyed Texas and those granola-eating hippies in California. But thanks to you, none of that will be happening any longer."

Bass shot Truman a short smile. "You're welcome."

Truman strode forward and grabbed the front of his shirt, jerking him closer.

"You shut your mouth, Monroe. If I can't have anything else, at least I'll get to take pleasure in the fact that I killed the mighty Sebastian Monroe."

"You can try," Bass murmured. "But I doubt it will work out all that well for you."

Truman shoved him free with a curse. "You know where I was going when I spotted your fire? I was heading back for a raid on _my_ camp, the one you and Miles have made yourselves at home in. So, you can taunt me with that smug face all you want, Monroe, but I'm thinking that finding you like this means my luck is about to turn."

"Smug face? That hurts, Truman. Charlie, do you think I have a smug face?"

She hadn't lowered the crossbow, and didn't take her eyes of Truman. "Kind of, yeah."

"Thanks," he muttered.

"Shut up both of you!" Truman shoved him back a step, before turning to yank the crossbow out of Charlie's hands. She resisted, until he clocked her in the face with his elbow.

"Hey!" Instant fury snapped inside him and Bass lunged forward to grab Truman by the neck. "You don't touch her."

The sound of a dozen military rifles arming made him freeze.

"Let me go, or I tell them to start shooting." Truman forced out, his face turning red.

Bass swept a quick glance around the room, considering for half a second that snapping Truman's neck might be worth getting shot over. _Hell_. But not when he had Charlie's safety to consider.

He cursed under his breath and let the bastard go.

"Now, where was I?" Truman sent him an arrogant smile, before turning back to Charlie.

She stared at him in defiance, but Bass could see the apprehension creeping into her gaze. Truman back-handed her, and she stumbled a step.

White-hot rage burned through Bass with the intensity of lava in his blood. "Godamn it, Truman, I will kill you for that."

Truman turned to point a finger at him. "No, you won't. And let me tell you why not. You two are going to come with me, and then I'm going to send word to Miles that if he wants his niece back in one piece, he's going to hand himself over to me and the rest of the patriot force. When I've got him in custody, we're going to make an example out of you both."

Bass let out a cynical laugh. "You're one fanatical son of a bitch, Truman, and that's say something considering the American-apple-pie-crazy patriot bastards I've come across in the last six months. There is no USA anymore. No more patriots, no more cockroaches colonizing the wasteland that other people have left behind. The gig is up, and Texas is going to wipe the floor with your fake-red-white-and-blue asses before the summer is out."

He went to take a step forward, but one of the patriots stepped in and grabbed his arm to hold him back.

Truman grinned, the expression self-satisfied. "You're really short-sighted, Monroe. You think we didn't have a contingency plan if this bet with Texas didn't pay off? You think we spent all of those years holed up in that cesspit in Guantanamo coming up with one play? You don't think we might have had a plan B,C,D all the way to damn Z when we hopped on our ships and sailed up the east coast?"

Bass glanced at Charlie, who was staring back at him in an expression of disbelieving horror. No, Truman had to be bluffing. They'd done the right thing; they'd handed the fake president over to the Texans and done the _godamn right thing_. And now if he believed Truman, it had all been for nothing. Christ, he should have killed the president when he'd had the chance, even if it hadn't stopped whatever the patriots were going to bring next. At least it would have made him feel better.

"Nothing to say to that, Monroe?" Truman clasped his hands behind his back and took a few steps away. "We're going to have some fun in the next few days, Monroe, I can guarantee that."

Truman nodded to the soldiers standing nearby, who grabbed Charlie and then started marching them out of the half-collapsed house. Outside, another twenty or so patriots stood waiting at attention.

One of the soldiers stepped forward and took a moment to secure his wrists, before doing the same to Charlie, and then tethering them together. For some reason, that last measure made him feel a bit better. At least for now, they wouldn't get separated.

Truman mounted the only horse and then called for the men to head out. The soldiers fell into a two-by-two march, with a couple of the patriots jostling him and Charlie ahead to walk behind the horse.

"Miles is going to kill me for this," he muttered as they started trudging behind Truman.

"Why? It's not your fault. How were we supposed to know Truman would be back with thirty soldiers following him?"

Bass glanced back at the lights in the distance from the camp, twinkling through the drizzle.

"I should have been on guard anyway, and we should have started heading back as soon as the worst of the rain had passed."

Charlie grimaced as she twisted against the ropes. "Yeah, well talking about what we should have done isn't going to help us now."

"Don't I know it," Bass muttered in return, weighing up the risk of an escape attempt against the probable outcome.

"You think Truman was telling the truth, that the patriots aren't down and out after all?" Though Charlie's tone was even, Bass caught a hint of worry in her voice.

Bass glared at the back of Truman's head. "I don't know. I guess it's possible, even though Texas troops outnumber the patriots four-to-one."

Right now, whatever Truman and the patriots were up to wasn't that high on his list of concerns. The only thing he could focus on, the one problem sitting on his chest like a godamn boulder, was how in the hell he was going to get Charlie out of this situation alive.


	3. Chapter 3

Miles unbuckled his sword belt and slipped his weapons free, setting them down on the nearby table covered with maps and battle strategies.

"Did you find them?"

He glanced over his shoulder to where Rachel stood in the doorway of the tent, arms crossed and a pensive expression on her face.

"Does it look like I found them?" He walked over to a stack of chests against the tent wall and started randomly opening lids. They'd only taken this patriot camp just long enough to cement their position and make a loose decision on their next move if they had to act quickly, there hadn't been time to take stock of provisions yet.

Rachel hadn't answered him, and he looked up to see her expression had started edging into pissed-off territory. Hell, after spending the day looking for Charlie and Bass, which had been about as productive as blowing smoke up his own ass, the last thing he wanted to do was argue with her. He sighed as he turned his attention back to the crates. Weapons. Ammo. Uniforms. MREs. _Ah-ha_. He reached into the chest and pulled out a bottle of whiskey, letting the lid of the crate fall closed again.

"You don't think something bad happened to them—?" Rachel walked into the tent, glancing at the bottle of whiskey in his hand before returning her gaze to his face.

"Like I said this morning, Bass probably went to sort out Connor, and as for Charlie, she wasn't all that impressed about Truman getting away. Knowing her, she took a one-woman hunting party to go flush the bastard out. The kid can take care of herself, Rachel, so I'm not going to worry until I have a reason to."

"Yeah, well I am going to worry until I have a reason not to. She might be armed, Miles, but she's still just a girl — _my girl_. She shouldn't be going off on her own to hunt fanatical sons of bitches like Ed Truman."

Miles screwed the lid off the whiskey. "Yeah, well you know damn well where she gets her stubbornness from."

He took a long swig of the liquor, enjoying the burn of it going down on an empty stomach.

Before Rachel could say anything else, a couple of the Texas rangers walked in, making way for General Blanchard.

"Good, you found a stash. We're both going to need that for this conversation." Blanchard walked forward and took the bottle from him, knocking back a quick mouthful.

"Let me guess, you've got good news to tell me." Miles took the bottle back and went searching for some glasses.

Blanchard gave a short, humorless laugh. "There's no such thing as good news in this world anymore, Matheson. Only kind-of bad news and really-bad news."

"And what kind of bad news are we talking now?" Miles found some glasses and brought them over to the table, plonking them down on the map the patriots had been using to plot their moves after Texas and California were finished wiping each other out.

Blanchard took the half-full glass that Miles held out for him and then took a seat in one of the three chairs sitting at an angle to the table.

"Just had a runner come in from down south — you know I've still kept my interests up even though I'd taken a backseat role in running things since Carver stepped up. This man of mine—"

"One of your spies," Miles interjected, taking a considering sip of his whiskey.

Blanchard shrugged. "Call it what you will, but it's a source of valuable information. And this damn beats all. Apparently there's a force marching up from the south, they're halfway across Mexico and expected to make our southern boarder within days."

Miles paused half way through pouring himself another measure. "What do you mean there's a force marching up from the south?"

Blanchard nodded gravely. "Just what I said, a few thousand men heading north, all trussed up in their shiny tan uniforms with an American flag slapped on their arms."

Miles swore under his breath. "Reinforcements."

"Looks like." Blanchard knocked back his drink in one go. "Before, we outnumbered the patriots four to one. With the additional troops, the bastards will be able to meet us on an even playing field. Maybe even have the superior numbers depending on exactly how big the force is. I've sent out some additional scouts, they should report back in a few days, and then we'll know for certain."

Miles shook his head and abandoned the civility of his glass for the whole damn bottle. "Because it would have been too much for us to win an easy fight for once."

He glanced over at Rachel, but she was staring out into the half-moon darkness, no doubt worrying about Charlie. So much for his plans of using the Texans to wipe the floor with the patriots and then disappearing into obscurity by the end of summer.

If Blanchard's spies had the right of it, and the patriots actually put up half a fight, then this campaign would stretch well into the year, maybe even longer. No matter how much he didn't want this to be his problem, he'd never run from a fight, and didn't intend to start now.

* * *

Charlie had given up on the idea of privacy about twelve hours ago. She sighed as she leaned against Monroe's side, since he was the only thing near enough for her to slouch against.

They'd been walking south almost non-stop for a day and a half, and the whole time, she'd never gotten more than the three feet away from Monroe that their tether allowed. He'd been stoic about the whole thing, and she could see from the calculating glint in his blue eyes that he was biding his time, working out the best opportunity for their escape. Of course, she wouldn't have expected any thing less of Monroe.

Over the past day, more and more patriot soldiers had been joining them, and now the number of men marching along with them easily number in the hundreds, as though every single patriot in the damn country had tracked down Ed Truman, leading this little force.

They'd stopped a few minutes ago, and now the soldiers were milling about, waiting for word to come down the line about what they were doing next.

"Where do you think we're going?" She'd been putting off voicing the question aloud, not really wanting to know the answer, because when it came to the patriots, it wouldn't be good.

"South." Monroe answered distractedly, his attention on who-knew-what.

"Obviously," she muttered. "I mean why? We're running out of Texas to walk down."

"I know." Monroe glanced at her, a flash of concern crossing his features. "We're getting close to the Mexican boarder, and that can't be a good thing."

Before she could answer, Monroe stepped forward as far as the tether would allow, stepping out from the surrounding soldiers where Ed Truman was riding past on his horse. "Hey, Captain America."

Truman pulled the horse to a short stop with a glare. "What do you want, Monroe?"

"What the hell are we doing?"

Truman leaned a forearm on the saddle pommel. "I would have thought that was obvious; we're amassing our forces to take Texas."

"That much is obvious, jerk-face, but you've retreated a little far from the frontlines, wouldn't you say?"

Truman straightened, his frown becoming angrier. "If you must know, tomorrow we're going to meet up with our reinforcements. They've been marching north, coming from all over central America, for months. Obviously you can't envisage the bigger picture, Monroe. No wonder we were able to take you piss-weak republic so easily."

Monroe took an angry step forward, jerking her wrists, and Charlie swore under her breath at his stupid temper. He'd taunted Truman first, how did he think the guy was going to respond? Before Monroe could take more than two steps, one of the soldiers who'd been guarding them all day grabbed his arm to hold him back.

"Chain them to the wagon for the night," Truman instructed the soldier, before pulling the horse around and continuing on his way.

A second soldier stepped up, and then she and Monroe were marched toward the front of the force, where four wagons had been parked off the side of the road. One of the soldiers grabbed a length of chain hanging from the last wagon and attached it to their tether, before the two soldiers walked off again.

Monroe hopped up onto the bed of the wagon and then held out a hand to help her up.

"At least we won't be sleeping on the ground," he muttered, slouching against a sack of potatoes.

And at least they'd get a few hours sleep, unlike last night when they'd kept walking most of the night, only stopping for a brief rest before dawn. She sighed as she sat adjacent to Monroe, leaning against the side of the wagon. Neither of them talked as they watched the soldiers encamping for the night.

After it got dark, one of the soldiers who'd been guarding them brought over two plates. As he went to hand one over to her, the plate tilted and the meat fell on the ground, leaving her with a pathetic crust of bread and nothing else.

"You mind getting me another cut of meat?" Usually she wouldn't have bothered asking, but Truman had been stingy with the rations, and she was starving.

"You're lucky we're even feeding you." The soldier snapped in return, slamming the plates down on the wagon bed.

"The point being that you are meant to be feeding me. So go and get me some more meat."

The soldier took a swing, but before his hand connected with her face, Monroe was there, catching the man's wrist. He twisted the soldier's arm at an angle away from his body until the guy grunted in pain.

Monroe leaned in closer to the soldier's face. "You don't hit her, got it? I'll let it go this once because you're obviously a grade-A moron with nothing but stupid in his head. But you touch her again, even think about laying a finger on her, I'll make you regret the day you made the piss-poor decision to join these America-loving, tan-wearing cockroaches. Now get out of here."

Monroe shoved him, and the guy stumbled before righting himself. He shot them a thwarted glare, before stalking away, rubbing his arm as he went.

Monroe sat back again, and then swapped their plates around. "Here, Charlie, have mine. You need to keep your strength up."

She glanced up at him, but he wasn't looking at her, instead he was staring off across the nearby campfires, breaking the crust of bread into smaller pieces. She wanted to thank him for intervening, but instead, she picked up the stringy hunk of meat and tore it in half.

"Here, this way its fair."

He glanced at her as he took the meat, but his expression remained unreadable. Sometimes, she could tell exactly what Sebastian Monroe was thinking, other times he totally closed off, and there was no way of telling what was going on in the cunning, scheming mind of his. One thing was for certain, she was glad Monroe was on their side of the fight. Yeah, she had gone up against him before, when he'd still be in charge of the republic, but that had been with Miles at her side. Over the past year, she'd come to realize that even when it looked like he was on the loosing end, Monroe never stayed down for long. And the crux of it was, he intended on getting the republic back, with Connor at his side. While the patriots stood in their way right now, she had no doubt that eventually Monroe would beat all his opponents down and come out the victor. And when that day came, they would all see whether or not Monroe would do things differently as he kept claiming.

She couldn't help the deep surge of skepticism whenever she thought too closely about it, because experience told her people didn't change. However, the part of her who'd kindled a tiny flame of trust in him — starting with when he'd saved her in the Plains Nation, to when he'd lived up to Miles' faith and delivered the president as they'd planned — really hoped it all wasn't an act in a larger scheme to get him where he wanted to be.

Charlie sighed as she tugged at the bindings around her wrists, beginning to chafe her skin. While being literally attached to Monroe wasn't the best situation to be stuck in, she had to admit there were worse people she could have gotten chained to. Her mom, for one. Or Connor. All right, so she'd slept with him and he was okay in a fight, but getting tied together? Yeah, she definitely would have hacked a limb off by now to get out of that.

But never mind all that. The best thing she could do right now was get some rest, and be prepared for whatever tomorrow brought. She settled into a deeper slouch, trying to get comfortable, and then glanced over at Monroe. He was sitting up at the edge of the wagon, staring broodingly out across the camp, not looking like he planned to bed down any time soon.

As though he sensed her watching him, he turned to glance down and then sent her a short, reassuring smile. "You get some sleep, Charlie. I'll keep watch."

Her heart stumbled over a beat as he stared at her for a long moment before glancing away. Between giving her his food and then ordering her to rest, anyone would think he was trying to take care of her.

Unbidden, the memory of him kissing her two days ago surfaced in her mind. She swallowed and half rolled away from him, uneasy sensations tumbling through her. She'd told herself she'd forget that moment had ever happened and never think of it again, but the recollection kept forcing its way to the surface of her thoughts.

She'd been pissed about it, and affronted that Monroe thought he could even try something like that with her. Lucky they hadn't made it back to camp, or she might have considered telling Miles just so Monroe would get the ass-kicking he so obviously deserved.

But the worst part of it? She'd been with a couple of guys — not many, but enough to know that she'd never felt that exact surge of heart-stopping heat the way she had when Monroe had touched her. It'd been a short, simple kiss, yet no other guy had ever set her burning like that before. And she hated that fact. Hated that he could affect her on a primal level she had no explanation for. The forbidden moment should have grossed her out, should have felt wrong and inappropriate. Yet the simple truth was, nothing else had ever felt as right.


End file.
